


still there is more between us

by hakyeonni



Series: little incubus [18]
Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Angst, M/M, Near Future, Shameless Smut, Time Skips, Vampires, Warning: Taekwoon, also hakyeon tops jaehwan finally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14491650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakyeonni/pseuds/hakyeonni
Summary: ten years have passed, and some things stay the same—but the arrival of an old enemy threatens to shatter the fragile peace that hakyeon has built for himself...





	1. Chapter 1

_Should God create another Eve, and I_  
_Another Rib afford, yet loss of thee_  
_Would never from my heart; no no, I feel_  
_The Link of Nature draw me: Flesh of Flesh,_  
_Bone of my Bone thou art, and from thy State_  
_Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe._  
_― **John Milton, Paradise Lost**_

 

 ** _25th March 2027_**  
**_Seoul, Korea_**  
“I feel weird.”

“I know.”

Sanghyuk smiles. Complete understanding, born of years and years of comfort—he doesn’t even have to voice that he’s feeling weird, because Hongbin already knows. That could be because of their bond, or because he’s been up since before sunset, playing the piano and trying to sort through his thoughts; either-or, really.

Hongbin slides onto the seat next to him and starts picking at the keys, copying the melody that Sanghyuk’s banging out. “Why do you feel weird?”

The darkness of the night is surrounding them, so comforting, and Sanghyuk leans into Hongbin automatically, his body moving before his mind catches up. His coldness does not shock Sanghyuk anymore. After ten years, he welcomes it. “I don’t know… I can’t describe it.”

“Try.”

So Sanghyuk does, closing his eyes and turning inward, trying to tune in to what his body is telling him. It’s not his mortal senses, he realises. It’s his immortal senses, the ones he’s only just starting to grasp and familiarise himself with—ten years later and he’s only now starting to feel at home in his body. But even so, even as he recognises the cause of the weirdness, he can’t quite put a name to it. “It’s familiar…” he murmurs. “It’s… Hang on. It’s coming back to me…”

His eyes snap open the moment he realises, and he can’t quash the grin that creeps across his face, and nor would he want to. “What is it?” Hongbin asks, placing one hand on Sanghyuk’s thigh reassuringly. “Are you okay?”

More than okay, Sanghyuk realises; it feels like a part of him that’s been sleeping for a long time is slowly coming back to life, and he can’t hide his excitement when he grabs Hongbin to kiss him. “Hakyeon’s coming home,” he whispers into the space between their lips.

The jealous Hongbin of yesteryear is long gone—once he might have stiffened at this, pulled away, not even wanting to comprehend Sanghyuk’s bond with Hakyeon. But now? Now he slides an arm around Sanghyuk’s waist and kisses him back with equal excitement, the joy shining out of his eyes so sweet to see. “Finally,” he murmurs, and Sanghyuk couldn’t agree more.

 

 ** _27th March 2027_**  
**_Seoul, Korea_**  
The only reason Sanghyuk realises, at first, that it’s not Hongbin coming home is because his phone has only just buzzed with a text—Hongbin’d left a few hours ago to go hunting, but seeing as they’ve been texting back and forth the whole time Sanghyuk doubts he’s actually got any hunting done yet—and even then he thinks maybe it’s Wonshik letting himself in, although usually he likes to knock first. It’s only until he’s half getting off the sofa to greet him that he realises that strange feeling is slamming back into him with full force, and then—

Hakyeon.

He’s changed his hair—it’s longer than the last time Sanghyuk saw him, hanging in his eyes—but otherwise he looks no different at all, which he realises is an idiotic thought as soon as it runs through his mind. Of _course_ he looks the same. It’s only been seven years that they’ve been apart, which is nothing to him, nothing to either of them, really. But—well, he’d expected, and he knows better than to expect anything with Hakyeon.

He’s only frozen for a second before he’s vaulting over the back of the sofa and running full-tilt into Hakyeon’s arms, barrelling into him hard enough that they both get knocked to the floor. Sanghyuk gasps and reaches for Hakyeon, but he’s laughing as he meets Sanghyuk in the middle, and somehow they end up twined together on Sanghyuk’s new rug (that he’d bought with his first royalty cheque; Hongbin had laughed himself into knots at the idea of Sanghyuk considering a rug a worthy purchase of such an exciting event), holding each other as they cackle. It’s different to the way Hongbin holds him, but different in a comforting way, one he hadn’t realised he’d missed because he’d shut off that part of him so it wouldn’t hurt. But, fuck, Hakyeon’s hands are so warm on his waist, and his face is so richly familiar, and it feels like a lifetime since he’s done this so he leans in and kisses Hakyeon.

He melts. That’s the only way he can describe it. It’s not romantic love that’s flowing between them as Hakyeon kisses him back slowly and sweetly. It’s something more base than that. It’s the pure, carnal longing between maker and child, instinctual and incomparable. Seven years dissolve into nothing as they kiss, not taking it any further, just kissing for kissing’s sake—something Sanghyuk hasn’t done for a while, he realises.

“I missed you,” he breathes, and then yanks Hakyeon in for a hug. They are impossibly close, but still he wants to be closer. “So much. Where did you go?” He pauses, closes his eyes, allows himself to voice the ugly thought he’s been trying to ignore since the moment Hakyeon and Jaehwan left. “I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

Hakyeon pushes Sanghyuk gently over so he’s on his back and then props himself up next to him, splaying a hand over Sanghyuk’s heart. The expression on his face… Sanghyuk doesn’t have to have a bond with Hakyeon to see how he’s warring with his words. “We went everywhere,” he whispers, playing with the fabric of Sanghyuk’s tshirt. “Fiji… Brazil… You would have loved Rio. Back to Europe. I took Jaehwan through all the countries Wonshik and I visited years ago. We went to Norway and saw the aurora… I want to take you back there sometime. It was gorgeous.” He pauses, his gaze taking on a different timbre, something more sombre. “I had work through some stuff that I didn’t even realise I was still hung up about. But I was always going to come back to you.”

Sanghyuk wants a play-by-play recap of every single day of the seven years they’ve been apart, but right now more than anything all he wants is to feel, so—hyper-conscious of the way the last time they were on the floor like this is when he was on the cusp of dying, when Hakyeon gave him immortality—he links his arms around Hakyeon’s neck and tugs him in for a kiss that deepens naturally.

It’s everything their first time as maker and child wasn’t but should’ve been. Hakyeon touches him reverently, an expression on his face like he’s never seen Sanghyuk before, stripping him of his layers until he’s naked and trembling on the rug. It’s almost holy, in a strange way; Hakyeon gives him a soft smile when he shifts away his clothes so they’re both bare, and then Sanghyuk loses himself in the way Hakyeon’s mouth feels, hot and wet on his cock and so sweetly right. “Lube,” he gasps, fisting a hand in Hakyeon’s hair, not forcing his head down but just keeping it there, grounding himself. “Hakyeon hyung, I—”

“Beg for it,” Hakyeon murmurs, replacing his mouth with a loose fist, a sardonic smile twitching on his lips. When Sanghyuk doesn’t respond, he stops moving entirely. “I want to hear you beg for it.”

“Fuck—please, hyung, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me I want you to fuck me so badly, hyung,” Sanghyuk sobs, twisting himself into knots as Hakyeon trails the tip of his index finger over the head of Sanghyuk’s cock. “Please, I’ve missed you so much, please just fuck me—”

Hakyeon obliges, traipsing down the hallway to Sanghyuk’s bedroom and returning with a bottle clutched in his hands. As Sanghyuk watches him, watches the way he moves, he realises that nothing at all has changed. Hakyeon still has that dancer’s grace, still moves like water, hypnotic even when he’s doing something as simple as this, just walking down a hallway with a bottle of lube, his grin wicked.

He starts to roll over, but Hakyeon places a hand on his shoulder and presses him flat on his back again, shaking his head. “Grab your knees and hold your legs up,” he murmurs, and Sanghyuk flushes. God, they’ve fucked thousands of times. Hakyeon’s seen him naked thousands more. And yet this order, given so softly and calmly, has him dreadfully embarrassed as he does as he’s told, holding his knees and shivering when Hakyeon trails a hand between his legs.

“Look at me,” Hakyeon whispers, his voice just a breath that Sanghyuk would miss if he weren’t so tuned into every fibre of Hakyeon’s being. “Sanghyuk. Look at me.”

Sanghyuk does, because he’s nothing if not obedient—for now, anyway—and when he meets Hakyeon’s eyes he gasps. Hakyeon’s got a slick finger pressing up against his entrance, but it’s nothing compared to how something in Sanghyuk’s soul sings at the sight of his yellow eyes, something he hadn’t even realised he missed. He arches his back as Hakyeon slides a finger inside him, moving slowly, intent on torturing Sanghyuk just to make up for time lost—and he _loves_ it.

By the time Hakyeon has three fingers sliding in and out of him, refusing to hit the spot that he knows will make Sanghyuk cry out, he feels like he’s coming undone; by the time Hakyeon finally rolls him over so he’s face-down on the rug and pushes into him slowly and gently, he knows he’s lost, everything he is adrift on the wind. For a moment they just stay like that, Hakyeon breathing in as Sanghyuk breathes out, the both of them with glowing yellow eyes and the knowledge that the earth will turn to dust around them but they will keep on living, keep on doing _this_ , and Sanghyuk couldn’t ever ask for more.

“Don’t,” he gasps as Hakyeon begins to move in him, so slowly and sweetly that he feels like his eyes are going to fall out from the torture of it all. “Don’t—do that.” When Hakyeon doesn’t respond, he shifts his hips upwards into him, relishing at the gasp he’s able to eke out. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Hakyeon snorts. “As you wish,” he purrs, and then he’s threading his hand through Sanghyuk’s hair to yank his head back; his back arches and Hakyeon slides into him even deeper, making the both of them moan, loudly and completely unapologetically.

“I missed you,” Sanghyuk chokes out, clawing at the rug as his vision begins to narrow down into nothing but pleasure ringed by affection. “So fucking much—”

He’s pushed himself up so he’s not spread flat on the floor, unable to bear the friction on his cock, and when he circles a hand around himself somewhat desperately he hears Hakyeon hiss and turns his head to see—oh, god, he looks like a god, he looks like _Sanghyuk’s_ god. “Don’t stop,” Hakyeon barks, grinning at Sanghyuk; he’s shapeshifted on fangs; Sanghyuk has a flash of the first time, of burying his fangs into Hakyeon’s shoulder to watch him bleed, and shudders with pleasure. “Wanna see you come for me.”

“Ngh,” Sanghyuk grunts, because he’s lost all ability to be coherent at the sound of those words. Hakyeon knows all the right ways to get him coming undone, and he’s not bothering to draw it out. Why would he? They have nothing but time, and their urgency is colouring the air. It chokes him utterly.

He’s already close, but then Hakyeon grabs him by the hips and flips him over so he’s on his back—and now all of a sudden he can look down and see Hakyeon moving in him, can see the way his body ripples under Sanghyuk’s living room lights, can watch with raptured eyes as Hakyeon tips his head back, lips parted. It’s this that makes him gasp, his breath stuttering in his throat, and right as he’s on the verge of coming Hakyeon slaps his hands away from his own cock but doesn’t stop fucking into him. He comes and it’s so bittersweet, on the verge of pleasure and pain, everything he needs and everything that’s not quite enough all at once; it’s torture and ecstasy, twined together in him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Hakyeon breathes with wonder in his voice.

For a moment the rest of the world falls away, including Hakyeon’s dominating veneer. The affection between them is so real and palpable Sanghyuk can feel it, welcome and comforting, and he smiles and lets his eyes flutter shut as Hakyeon fucks into him, pleasure compounding and reverbing in his chest until, with a moan, Hakyeon comes too. The taste of his energy is a salve to some of the pain Sanghyuk has had in his heart for seven years; he welcomes it like an old friend, familiar, homely. It’s strange to think how fucking someone could feel like coming home, but it does. It’s the only way he knows how to describe it.

“I missed you,” Sanghyuk says again, opening his eyes to see Hakyeon lying on the rug next to him. The bastard doesn’t even look spent, not a hair out of place, but what makes Sanghyuk look away is the soft smile he’s wearing.

Hakyeon rolls over and presses a gentle kiss to Sanghyuk’s collarbone. “I missed you too,” he whispers, and then kisses Sanghyuk’s neck, his cheek. “More than you know. And I’m glad I’m home.”

 _I am too,_ Sanghyuk thinks, closing his eyes and pulling Hakyeon close.

//

“So tell me about you,” Hakyeon says, bent over with his head in Sanghyuk’s fridge. “What have I missed?”

They’ve showered and Hakyeon’s wearing one of Sanghyuk’s silk robes (“just shift one on,” Sanghyuk’d complained, but Hakyeon had gone all soft and said “but it won’t smell like you,” and how could Sanghyuk say no to that?), looking more at home in Sanghyuk’s apartment than he has any right to, really.

 _Everything_ , Sanghyuk wants to say, because now that Hakyeon’s not inside him it’s hard to keep the bitterness away. He understands why Hakyeon left. He does, he really does. He and Jaehwan deserved it, to find themselves outside of the context of Taekwoon’s shadows. But seven years is a long time in the human world, and Sanghyuk’s still learning how to separate himself from that. How can he even begin outlining all the ways he’s changed—and all the ways he’s stayed the same?

“Hongbin and I got married,” he says, leaning against the kitchen bench.

That gets the reaction he was hoping for, because Hakyeon whirls around so fast he smacks his head on the fridge door and winces, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

“No.”

“Good,” Hakyeon replies, turning back around to dig in the fridge once more. “Because I was going to say that if you got married and didn’t invite me I would actually kill you and bring you back to life all over again.” Sanghyuk starts to protest, but when Hakyeon whirls with a can of red bull in his hand—how the fuck did he find that?—he silences. “And don’t say that’s not possible, because I’d find a way to make it possible. So. Tell me what I actually missed.”

“We bought this place.” Sanghyuk gestures at the kitchen with a sweep of his arm. “Together. I still have my old apartment, but I’m renting it out. Nice human couple live there. Hongbin barely goes home anymore, and Wonshik hyung complains a lot. He missed you the most, I think, but he’d never admit it. Kept saying that the fifty years you two spent apart were the best fifty years of his life, but he’s a shit liar.”

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow. “I know. I saw him as soon as the sun went down. He was all gruff about it, but I swear he almost started crying when I walked in.”

“Yeah. He’s really sappy about that sort of shit. I think he wanted to keep us close after you two left. We went on holidays a couple of times, all three of us. It was hard to work around the daylight thing.” Sanghyuk grimaces—save swimming across the ocean, which the vampires had been up for but he hadn’t (“just shift into a shark or something?” Hongbin had suggested, and when Sanghyuk realised he was being serious he’d just turned and left the room) the only ways for them to travel was going through the north, which he also refused to do, or by ship. They’d ended up taking a cruise with the vampires stashed in coffins kept in the light-tight hold. It’d been an experience, for sure, and one he’s sure Hakyeon does not want to know the details of, so he just shrugs. “It was fun when we got there.”

“And what are you doing for a job?” When Sanghyuk stares at him, he raises an eyebrow, crumpling the now-empty can in his fist. “I know you, and you’re not the type to just be satisfied with immortality like Hongbin. Are you still hooking?”

“Not for now, but I’ll probably end up going back to it one day. It’s fun.” Sanghyuk turns to wander towards the piano. “I’m… writing songs, actually.”

Hakyeon grins as Sanghyuk plays a note, his smile wicked. “My Sanghyukkie, an idol?”

“I’m not an idol—”

“On stage surrounded by adoring fans?”

“Hyung—”

“Okay, not an idol, got it,” Hakyeon interrupts as he sits down at the piano, crossing his legs at the knee and placing both hands on his leg primly. “Just writing songs?”

“For other artists, yeah. It’s fun. Pays well, too.”

They fall into silence. Sanghyuk stares straight ahead at the view—Hongbin had insisted, saying he wanted to look out on his territory, and Sanghyuk hadn’t cared enough to protest—of the city below and resists the urge to play an ominous sounding chord because he can. They’re stilted, tiptoeing around each other, relearning things that should be old knowledge, all because Hakyeon ran. And he _knows_ he shouldn’t be mad about this, knows that with his logical, rational part of his brain. The other part of him, the part that makes him turn away from Hakyeon and head towards his bedroom, is screaming at him that this is wrong even though it was so right before. Hakyeon shouldn’t have to learn all this shit about Sanghyuk’s life. He should have been there to see it happen in the first place.

Hakyeon finds him sitting in front of his mirror shifting his features mindlessly, burning through energy because it’s not like it matters. “Hey,” he whispers, kneeling on the floor and catching Sanghyuk’s wrist as he raises his hand. “Stop that.”

“Don’t read my thoughts,” Sanghyuk growls, and snatches his wrist away, shifting into Hakyeon—complete with longer hair—just to be petty.

Hakyeon, for his part, doesn’t look fazed. “I’m not. I could be blind and deaf and still know that you’re pissed at me.” When Sanghyuk doesn’t reply, he raises an eyebrow. “You gonna tell me why? Or do I have to mind-read it out of you?”

“You left,” Sanghyuk replies simply, turning back to the mirror and shifting through Wonshik, Hongbin, Jaehwan. “I know why you did, and I know you needed to. But you missed so much. It’s… weird.”

Hakyeon glances away, but not before Sanghyuk catches a flash of anger in his eyes, mirrored by the spike of it he feels lancing his chest. That’s the part he hadn’t missed, those emotions that he does not own but is ruled by regardless. It stings. “I have a life of my own to live, Sanghyuk,” he murmurs, and even though the words are cruel he is speaking them quietly, gently. “I thought… you’d be okay.”

“It’s not that I wasn’t okay, it’s just—fuck, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair and shifts back to himself, immediately loathing the way he looks so anguished. “It’s just weird, okay? You just—I don’t know. We’ve spent more time apart than we have together. You’re a bit of a stranger to me now.”

The moment he says those words he realises that he’s wrong. It’s not Hakyeon that has changed; in fact he is unerringly the same (apart from the hair), unsettlingly so. It’s that _he_ has changed, although he’s not even sure how. He watches the surprise cross Hakyeon’s face and turns back to the mirror instead. It’s just another statement of how different they are: to Hakyeon, seven years is nothing. To Sanghyuk, it’s one-third of his mortal life.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, putting his head in his hands and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes so his vision goes all white noise. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I wasn’t expecting you to come back all of a sudden like this… and time works differently for you. To me, you were away for an age. Now that you’re back, you’re trying to fit yourself into my life as it was seven years ago. But it doesn’t work like that.”

He feels Hakyeon’s hand come to rest on his knee. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Sanghyuk is thankful for the apology if not for the circumstances in which it’s needed. “You’re right in that time works differently for me now, and the same thing will happen to you as you get older. I didn’t realise things would have changed so much. I’m old, and I don’t like change, so I try and avoid it.”

“Just because we’re immortal doesn’t mean we’re immune to change,” Sanghyuk points out. “Us especially. We change all the time, with shifting.”

Hakyeon laughs, and a part of Sanghyuk’s iciness melts. He’s missed the sound of that laugh. “When the hell did you get so wise beyond your years? This is what really happens when I leave, right? You and Wonshik sit around and circlejerk about philosophy and other deep shit?”

He can’t help himself, he starts laughing—because it’s not that far from the truth; he and Wonshik have spent more than a few evenings discussing all sorts of things simply for the sake of it over glasses of wine—and the moment he does he knows Hakyeon has him. “Fuck off,” he growls, laughing even harder when Hakyeon peels his hands away from his eyes and brings them to his lips to kiss Sanghyuk’s fingers. “Hyung! Don’t!”

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed that whining,” Hakyeon says with a wink, and then takes Sanghyuk’s pointer finger into his mouth, sucking on it gently.

Almost immediately Sanghyuk’s eyes glow yellow, and he snatches his finger away. “Fuck, I didn’t miss how absolutely shameless you are.”

“Yes you did,” replies Hakyeon, and then flops over and puts his head in Sanghyuk’s lap, wriggling. “You missed me so much that you’re throwing a teenage tantrum over it—”

“I’m not even a teenager! I’m twenty one—”

Hakyeon claps a hand over his mouth. “You’re ten. A bit early for your angsty years, but I suppose anything is possible.”

This is what he missed most of all, he realises faintly; the banter. _Oh, hyung, I’m not ever gonna let you leave again_ , he thinks, beaming down at Hakyeon. “Fuck you. I’ve already had all my angsty years care of you and Jaehwan hyung—”

“That wasn’t our fault!” Hakyeon pouts, but they’re both smiling, and the uneasiness is gone. They’re back to how they usually are: poking fun constantly, but with an undercurrent of affection to it all. “How the hell was I supposed to know that Jaehwan had enemies?”

“I thought you were a mind reader, hyung,” Sanghyuk replies innocently.

And then Hakyeon’s swatting at him, and then they’re play-wrestling on the floor, the both of them shifting to try and get an advantage and completely failing because they’re laughing so hard. They end up flopped on their backs, wheezing and rolling over each other, cracking each other up even though they can’t even remember what they were laughing about in the first place. It’s pure and real and so very very Hakyeon, and Sanghyuk keeps reaching out to touch him, just to make sure he’s really there.

//

They’re lying draped over each other on the sofa when the door swings open. Sanghyuk doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Hongbin—he could sense him coming from a mile away—but Hakyeon struggles lazily upright, his curious expression turning into one of delight when he pokes his head over the back of the sofa and sees Hongbin in the doorway.

“Hyung?” Hongbin asks, his voice wobbly, taking a slow step closer. “Is that—is that really you?”

“The one and only,” Hakyeon replies, getting up off the sofa and spreading his arms wide. “Get over here and give your hyung a—”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence, because Hongbin crosses the floor in a single stride (Sanghyuk doesn’t even see him move, he’s that fast) to wrap both arms around Hakyeon’s waist and twirl him around, the both of them giggling deliriously. Sanghyuk’s heart skips a beat, he swears it does; the joy on their faces is something beautiful to behold, especially because he knows Hongbin has been taking this hard, too. After all, Hakyeon has been a constant presence in his life since the very day he was made. This past seven years was the longest time they’ve ever been apart. At the time it was nice, in the way that misery loves company, but now that they’re back together Sanghyuk can sense a wholeness between the three of them that he hasn’t felt for a long time.

“Are you going to—” Sanghyuk starts, and then cuts himself off when Hongbin pulls away to reveal bloody tears streaking their way down his cheeks. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Just happy,” Hongbin says around a sob, and then hugs Hakyeon again. “Sorry. I know I’m being dramatic.”

He is—almost uncharacteristically so, in a weirdly cute way—but at the same time Sanghyuk gets it. After everything they went through with Taekwoon they all became close to the point of weirdness (and Sanghyuk didn’t really think that was possible with Hakyeon and Wonshik, considering it seemed they could read each other’s minds already). It was reactionary, perhaps, but it also felt right.

“You wouldn’t be yourself if you weren’t dramatic.” Hakyeon looks over Hongbin’s shoulder at Sanghyuk and winks. “From the very first moment you were reborn—”

“Yeah, yeah, I tried to rip your throat out. I know. Very dramatic.” Pulling back, Hongbin wipes his eyes and attempts a smile. If it’s watery Sanghyuk knows it’s because it’s nearly dawn and he’s fading fast. “Still. I’m just glad you’re back.”

Hakyeon wipes away the blood on his face with all the care of a parent before kissing him on the forehead gently. “I’m glad I’m back too,” he whispers, and Sanghyuk just smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

_Me miserable! Which way shall I fly_  
_Infinite wrath and infinite despair?_  
_Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;_  
_And in the lowest deep a lower deep,_  
_Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,_  
_To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven._  
**_― John Milton, Paradise Lost_ **

 

 _ **5th September 2020**_  
_**Tokoriki, Fiji**_  
“What is it with you and beaches?” Jaehwan says good-naturedly, flopping in the sand next to Hakyeon.

“They’re just nice,” Hakyeon replies easily, trying to hide the way his heart is racing at the sudden appearance of Jaehwan, and how badly it had startled him. For all his perceptiveness, Jaehwan doesn’t seem to think anything’s amiss; he digs his toes into the sand and grins goofily at Hakyeon.

They’d squabbled over where to go until, at Sanghyuk’s suggestion, they’d employed the age-old method of sticking a map to the wall and throwing a pin—in this case, Hakyeon’s dagger—and going wherever it stuck. It had backfired and landed somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, but Jaehwan’d suggested Fiji, so off they went with nary a backwards glance, Hakyeon’s reservations heavy on his tongue.

“You weren’t turned on a beach, were you?”

Hakyeon turns to Jaehwan with surprise. “No, I was turned in a palace. You know that.”

“So what’s the obsession?”

His skin prickles with irritation, even though he knows it shouldn’t. Jaehwan’s curious, is all. He always has been—it’s his incessant curiosity about Hakyeon that started all this in the first place—and after dealing with Sanghyuk he should be used to endless questions by now. But ever since they stepped off the plane his chest has been tight with a feeling he doesn’t have words for, and it’s manifesting now as annoyance. “I like the sun,” he says, closing his eyes and turning his face skyward. “I know how much the vampires miss it. It makes me appreciate it all the more.”

“Fair enough.” Jaehwan casts a surreptitious glance around the beach, but it’s deserted, so he lets his wings erupt and lies back on the sand with a happy sigh. “Personally, I can’t stand the sand. It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets everywhere.”

“Is that a fucking _Star Wars_ quote?” Hakyeon snipes, turning to glare down at Jaehwan. “Because if it is, I want a divorce.”

“You can’t divorce someone you haven’t married, little incubus.” Jaehwan grins widely. “And just because you can’t accept that the prequels aren’t that bad—”

“I refuse to have _Star Wars_ discourse with you,” Hakyeon replies, perfectly aware he’s doing just that, “although while I’ll admit that _Revenge of the Sith_ is redeemable, the rest are shit.”

“Just because Sanghyuk thinks so—”

“Out of all our friends, who agrees with you that the prequels ‘aren’t that bad’?” Hakyeon accompanies this with air quotes, and upon receiving just a blank look from Jaehwan, stands up triumphantly. “Exactly my point. You, nephilim, are wrong.”

He begins stalking his way up the beach pointedly, biting back a smile; in the end he only gets a few strides before with a rustle and a playful roar Jaehwan picks him up and runs into the water with him. Hakyeon’s yelling and wriggling furiously, but it does as much good as trying to walk through a brick wall. By the end of it they’re both soaked head-to-toe (although Jaehwan’s got the worst of it, his wings waterlogged and sagging) and wheezing with laughter. It’s lovely and natural and the affection between them is so palpable Hakyeon can practically reach out and touch it, but as they head back up the beach towards their villa, he can sense the darkness lurking in his chest, too.

//

“Are you alright?”

The question is hesitant. Jaehwan sounds like he doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to be asking it, which he isn’t, not really. This holiday is not meant to be spoiled by the past, by the demons that still, even after three years, seem to haunt them—not in the light like before, but in the shadows, insidious and filmy. They were meant to be leaving all that behind. And in all honesty, Hakyeon thought he _had_. What they’d gone through has barely crossed his mind these past three years. Why it’s choosing to rear its head now, when they’re so far away from home, he doesn’t have a clue.

“Fine,” he whispers, rolling over into Jaehwan’s arms and closing his eyes like the lie is written in them.

 

 _ **17th December 2020**_  
_**Dublin, Ireland**_  
A single white feather lies on his outstretched hand.

He stares at it curiously. He doesn’t know where it came from, or even whom it came from; one moment his palm was empty, and the next, this feather lay upon it. It’s long and stiff, a flight feather, _remex_ , his brain reminds him. It shouldn’t be this soft. Should it? He’s felt feathers like this before, feels them often—

As if he’s been summoned, Hakyeon feels Jaehwan’s arms slide around his hips, circling him, his wings brushing Hakyeon’s back. “What’s that?”

“A feather,” Hakyeon says with a sigh, stating the obvious since Jaehwan’s being obtuse. “It just… appeared.”

He holds it up to the light of their hotel room, trying to see. The black of Jaehwan’s feathers is obsidian, reflecting rainbows in the sunlight, the deepest dark Hakyeon’s ever seen; in comparison, this feather practically glows, the faintest tinge of lavender shining through.

“What feather?” Jaehwan kisses Hakyeon on the neck. “I don’t see anything.”

There’s something he’s missing, because the feather is real. He runs his fingers over it and turns, waving it in Jaehwan’s face. “It’s right here.”

“Are you feeling alright?” His face creased with concern, Jaehwan lays a hand on Hakyeon’s forehead, as if to check if he’s running a fever.

He jerks his head away. He’s immortal, and hasn’t been sick a day in his life since he was turned; Jaehwan’s concern is superfluous and irritating, and he bites back the anger that rises in his throat, bitter and vile. There’s no reason for it, but it sits there anyway, an echo of what he’s been feeling this entire trip. “I’m fine. Just look—”

With a gasp and a shudder his eyes open, and this time Jaehwan’s concern is not just written in his face but in the tenseness of his shoulders. He’s looming over Hakyeon and it’s dark, and immediately he realises what must have happened. “Hakyeon? Are you okay? You were shouting in your sleep.”

He sits up and rubs his temples, feeling a headache start to form. “Yeah, I was… Yeah. I’m fine.”

But Jaehwan doesn’t take this as the lie it obviously is and lays a hand on Hakyeon’s knee, although he’s relaxed a bit. “What were you dreaming about?”

Hakyeon looks up at Jaehwan and sees those black eyes, ever so familiar and yet so alien; he sees fangs, a small pouty mouth, black hair falling over a pale forehead, and looks away. “I can’t remember,” he lies, and the bitterness rises in him once more.

For a moment Jaehwan pauses, and the moment hangs between them; Hakyeon thinks he’s going to insist, but instead he just lies down and pulls Hakyeon with him, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head. “Let’s get some sleep?” he whispers, and Hakyeon nods, not wanting to say a word in case all the negativity on his tongue starts flowing and can’t be stopped.

 

 _ **22 June 2021**_  
_**Vatican City, Italy**_    
That’s not to say that it’s bad all the time, because it isn’t. In fact the great majority of their trip—and the longer they’re away, the less Hakyeon feels the need to go home—is spent laughing and smiling, being complete and utter parodies of human tourists because they can. Jaehwan has seen so much of the world because he ran from Taekwoon for so long, but Hakyeon’s travels were always defined by Wonshik, who loathed sunny places; they never really went anywhere except for Europe and China, and even then they only spent a few months in Rome. It’s at Hakyeon’s insistence that they make a pilgrimage to the Vatican City, not for any religious reason but simply spurred on by curiosity.

“Do you believe in God?” Hakyeon whispers, staring upwards.

He’s seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel frescoes, but he should know by now that pictures, especially of something so grand, cannot compare to real life. It’s not just the art, but also the reverent air of piety that pervades the place; he’s never felt anything like it before.

When he looks down at Jaehwan, he has his arms folded over his chest, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re asking a half-angel if he believes in God,” Jaehwan deadpans, but he’s smiling.

“Yeah, well? It’s not like we’ve talked about it. You could be a Satanist for all I know.” When Jaehwan starts laughing, he can’t stop himself from smiling either. “I mean, your father’s a demon! It doesn’t get more Satanist than that—”

“Don’t mention Satan in here!” They’re cackling now, leaning into each other to hold each other up, startling the humans also in the chapel, who stare at them wide-eyed. “I mean, I guess I do? But it’s not like we _talk_ or anything. I’m not religious.”

“And yet you’re a descendant of Him,” Hakyeon replies, wandering away to stare upwards once more. “Shit. I didn’t even think of that. I’m fucking a descendant of God—”

This time Jaehwan claps a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking silently and his face screwed up so he doesn’t burst into laughter. “You’re gonna get us thrown out,” he hisses, and Hakyeon bites his fingers. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Believe in God.”

Hakyeon squints. “I guess I have to, don’t I? Considering my boyfriend is a literal half-angel. But I’ve never really… thought about it. I wasn’t bought up Christian. I just sort of accepted the existence of angels and demons. Not like I had a choice.” He pauses and steps away, out of the circle of Jaehwan’s arms.

“You’re always talking about how you don’t have a choice,” Jaehwan replies, and Hakyeon can feel his gaze, heavy and hot. “I don’t think that’s true at all.”

The Sistine Chapel isn’t the place for an argument—and Hakyeon could argue until the cows come home about this exact topic—so instead he doesn’t reply and turns his eyes skywards once more, taking in the magnificence. It’s one of the most breathtaking things he’s ever seen. Mortals and their creativity will never cease to amaze him; Michelangelo is long-gone, dead before Hakyeon was even born, but he will live for the rest of time, kept alive by his art. What is it like to have a legacy, he wonders? Death, for him, is impossible to comprehend, and so is the idea of leaving something behind—but who’s to say mortals aren’t immortal after all?

They end up in one corner, staring upwards, shoulders brushing but otherwise just standing in contemplative silence. Michelangelo has painted an angel, sword in hand, dressed in fine robes and with white wings outstretched, banishing figures to Hell—figures that, when Hakyeon looks closer, he can see have twisted features, black wings, are screeching in pain.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaehwan whispers.

“It’s horrific,” Hakyeon whispers back, because it _is_. Jaehwan never fell, but someone did to create him, and it cuts too close to home. How can he live with that knowledge? “What would it be like to fall for love? To be cast away from everything you’ve ever known for the one thing that makes it all worth it—”

He’s cut off by Jaehwan squeezing his hand gently, a small smile on his face. “You’re contemplative today.”

He’s missing the point, because Hakyeon’s been nothing if not contemplative since they left Seoul, but he swallows the sharp remark his tongue was forming and levels Jaehwan with a stare. “Would you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Fall for love.”

At this Jaehwan sighs, and brings their interlaced fingers up to his mouth, kissing them briefly. “Haven’t I already proven my love for you?”

“It’s not about proving your love,” Hakyeon replies, and narrows his eyes. “I’m just curious, is all. Would you?”

“For you, incubus, I’d do anything. Including fall, yes.” Jaehwan looks up at the ceiling again, but there’s a hidden darkness in his eyes; pain, centuries-old pain, pain that Hakyeon so rarely sees. “But I’ll never have to, so it’s a moot point. Come on.” He tugs at Hakyeon’s hand gently, smiling once again; he goes from sad to happy so fast that it gives Hakyeon whiplash sometimes. “Let’s go get gelato.”

Hakyeon leans into him as they make their way out of the chapel and resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Only if you agree not to try and fucking fingerpaint with it again.”

“No promises,” Jaehwan replies with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and doubles over laughing when Hakyeon elbows him in the ribs.

//

He wakes in the night and slides out from the circle of Jaehwan’s wings, chest heaving; he has to clench his fingers in the sheets just to keep himself grounded, trying to remind himself that it was just a nightmare, it didn’t mean a thing. But—how can it be? How can Taekwoon still be haunting his dreams after all this time? He can’t even remember the details. All he saw was black eyes, fangs, and the soft embrace of white feathers that chilled him to the core.

Maybe he’s going crazy. _Post-traumatic stress disorder_ , he thinks, and then shakes his head. He’s seen that. He’s held Sanghyuk’s hand through countless flashbacks and nightmares, stroked his head to sleep, comforted him when he woke up screaming in blind terror. This is different. This is a thread of darkness that has wound itself around his heart and is now crushing it slowly, killing him in increments. Every day another part of him dies. Sometimes he fears he’ll wake up and there’ll be nothing left but eyes, lips, a tongue—and he doesn’t even know why.

Maybe he’s sick. Maybe it really is PTSD. Maybe he’s just going batshit insane, his mind finally having cracked, the rigours of immortality catching up on him at last—it’s not unheard of. Ancient vampires meeting the dawn because they got so sick of living. It was easier in the old days; he knew of succubi who would shapeshift in front of mortals so they would be burnt alive like witches, relishing in the pain.

But no. He doesn’t want to kill himself. There’s just a blackness oozing in his veins, sliding through his core, and although it hasn’t torn him apart yet—maybe it could, if he let it. But he doesn’t know how to fix it, can’t even comprehend bringing it up to Jaehwan, so instead of sliding back into bed he pads across the silent hotel room to the computer and boots it up, desperately needing distraction. He types in _Paradise Lost_ and _Fallen Angels_ and _Nephilim_ and looks at paintings until the sun comes up and Jaehwan stirs, until he closes his eyes and sees a collage of pain, suffering, and of black wings that burn in the sunlight.

 

 _ **30 May 2022**_  
_**New York, USA**_  
“You know what we should do?”

Hakyeon doesn’t even bother looking up from where he’s lying on the hotel room sofa, chin on his chest as his eyes are glued to the cooking show on TV. “If it involves moving, I’m not doing it.”

Jaehwan doesn’t accept that, though, and stalks over to flop on the floor next to Hakyeon, putting one hand on his thigh. It’s this that makes Hakyeon look at him, and he’s not at all surprised to see that Jaehwan’s got an eyebrow raised and a salacious smile on his lips. “I was thinking we should find a local.”

“Find a local?” Maybe it’s the hours of American TV he’s consumed today, but he doesn’t understand what Jaehwan’s getting at; his brain has well and truly melted at this point. “What, and ask them for directions?”

“I mean a local incubus, you twat,” Jaehwan replies with a gentle slap of Hakyeon’s leg. “Aren’t we meant to be, like, fucking our way across the world? We haven’t been doing a very good job so far.”

“We’ve been fucking each _other_ across the world,” Hakyeon replies haughtily. “And do you really think having a threesome with some American incubus is the right way to start?” Jaehwan starts laughing at that, and Hakyeon can’t hide his smile, either. “Is this just because you want to sleep with someone else? You know you don’t need me involved for that.”

Jaehwan rolls his eyes and lies back on the floor with an air of resignation. “It was just a suggestion. Thought it’d be fun.”

“It might be, but we can’t, anyway.” Sitting up—it’s a struggle, if he’s honest—he points at Jaehwan with an accusing finger that wiggles its way up from his toes to his collarbones. “Any incubus worth his salt would recognise those tattoos like I did.”

“Aha,” Jaehwan crows, and is on his feet faster than Hakyeon can blink. “I have a solution for that.”

He disappears into the bedroom and comes out holding a tube of something that he tosses to Hakyeon; he only just catches it, and fumbles with it to bring it in front of his face. “Concealer? What’ve you got this for?” He pauses and looks back at Jaehwan, raising an eyebrow pointedly. “Do you even know how to use it?”

“That’s what the internet is for, isn’t it?” he says, and then shrugs. “But no. I don’t. Know how to use it, I mean.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Hakyeon hauls himself fully off the sofa so he’s standing and grabs Jaehwan’s hand. “Come on then,” he murmurs, and tugs Jaehwan to the bedroom. The lighting’s best in here, so he points to the bed before flicking on all the switches. “Sit.”

Jaehwan does as he’s told, shapeshifting his clothes away so he’s naked—but for once the air between them isn’t sexually charged as Hakyeon settles on the bed in front of him, makeup bag in hand. It’s purely clinical, and he sweeps an appreciative gaze over Jaehwan’s body, taking in the tattoos—feet, thighs, ribs, hands, collarbones—and the way Jaehwan looks under the bright downlights. It shouldn’t be flattering, but he still looks unbelievably beautiful, his wings shifting as he breathes.

Hakyeon takes a deep breath and looks away.

“Where did you even buy this?” he mutters, dabbing some of the concealer onto Jaehwan’s collarbones and stippling it with his brush.

“From Sephora, the other day.” When Hakyeon looks up with a raised eyebrow, he finds Jaehwan already regarding him evenly. “I just walked up to one of the humans and asked her if she had something to cover up my tattoos.”

“I’m sure she fell over herself to help you,” Hakyeon replies dryly, squeezing some more onto his brush.

“She did seem rather eager, yes.”

“Well, she matched your skin well. It’s covering nicely.”

They sit in a comfortable silence as Hakyeon finishes Jaehwan’s collarbones before moving on to the ones on his hands, bringing them up to his face to see easier. Jaehwan has lovely hands, fine-boned and unmarred; they’re not hands made for violence, and yet he’s seen so much of it over the centuries. _I still don’t know how old he is,_ Hakyeon realises, looking up and giving Jaehwan a wry smile. _How much has he seen?_

“When did you learn how to do this?” Jaehwan asks as he’s leaning back on the bed so Hakyeon can dab the concealer onto his ribs.

“As a mortal,” Hakyeon murmurs, patting his fingertip over the edge of the concealer to blend it seamlessly with Jaehwan’s skin. “Before I taught Jihoon I used to do it myself. I still did, a lot of the time. The routine was soothing. It was my way of shapeshifting, I guess, before I knew how.”

“You lived as a woman in those days,” Jaehwan says, and it’s not a question.

Hakyeon meets his eyes and shifts down on the bed, towards his thighs. “An ancient drag queen,” he replies, but it’s a joke that falls flat. “Yes, I did. I had to. And in a way I wanted to. Being Songi was…” His brush stills on Jaehwan’s thigh as he casts his mind back nearly four centuries, to what it was like to be mortal; it’s fuzzy and blurry at the best of times. “She was desirable. She was sought-after. Everyone wanted a piece of her, and when I had essentially estranged myself from my family, being wanted was nice.” He looks back up at Jaehwan and smiles. “You know me. I love attention.”

“But you still wear makeup today.”

Sitting up properly, Hakyeon brushes his hair out of his eyes and stares Jaehwan down. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing! I like it. I just find it interesting. How you continue to mix femininity and masculinity, even after all these years.”

“I don’t think makeup is inherently feminine,” Hakyeon murmurs, and turns his attention back to Jaehwan’s thighs. “Or it shouldn’t be. It’s just self-expression.”

“And that’s what I love about you, little incubus,” Jaehwan replies, stroking the side of Hakyeon’s cheek. “You’re so creative. I would never even think of shapeshifting makeup on, let alone putting it on myself.”

Hakyeon clicks his tongue, but leans into the touch anyway. “That’s because you come from a different time, old man.” _No time like the present_ , he thinks, and then looks up at Jaehwan. “How old are you?” And, as an afterthought, to lighten the mood, “and when will you let me paint your face?”

“I can’t believe it’s taken you all these years to ask,” Jaehwan says, a definite glint of amusement in his eye.

“Yeah, well, even I know some things are off limits,” Hakyeon grumbles.

Jaehwan snorts. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. But I can’t even tell you. Only the aristocracy had their birthdays recorded back then.” His voice is taking on that foreign timbre, that ancient accent that Hakyeon fears and loves so much, and he shivers as he slides further down on the bed, to Jaehwan’s feet. “I think I was born sometime in the early sixth century… but I can’t give you anything more exact than that, I’m afraid.”

“But—” Hakyeon looks up, mouth falling open. “That means you’re over one thousand years old! One thousand five hundred years! That’s—”

“Old,” Jaehwan finishes, and smiles. “What were you expecting?”

“Not more than a millennium at the most.” Hakyeon stares at him. How many civilisations has he seen rise and fall? In their own country alone he’s lived through so many different eras Hakyeon’s head spins, trying to remember Wonshik’s endless lectures on Korean history. “You were born in the Three Kingdoms?”

“Baekje, to be specific. Towards the end. It was a very depressing time. Power struggles, you know?”

Hakyeon does, now that he knows what time period to narrow down on. Early sixth century—the height of Goguryeo’s military expansion into China and the other two kingdoms, Baekje and Silla. Jaehwan’s right. It wouldn’t have been a fun place to be. And at least hints of Joseon still shine through so that Hakyeon doesn’t feel entirely like an alien in today’s Seoul, but any trace of Baekje is well and truly gone by now. He rests his hand on Jaehwan’s calf for a moment, squeezes, tries to say _I understand_. Jaehwan might be older, but they’re both living relics, echoes of a past long-dead.

“You can do it now, if you like,” Jaehwan says softly as Hakyeon’s patting translucent powder over all the areas he’s just concealed, slightly disturbed at seeing Jaehwan without his tattoos—he looks naked. “Put makeup on me, I mean.”

“Really?”

That’s how Hakyeon ends up sitting on Jaehwan’s lap—who’s still naked, his hands gripping Hakyeon’s hips lightly—to do his makeup, tilting his head this way and that in the light. He starts with primer and then concealer and foundation (his is too dark for Jaehwan, so he lightens it with the bottle of pale foundation he keeps on hand for that reason) before moving onto contour and blush. Jaehwan has cheekbones that others would kill for, and when Hakyeon’s accentuated them, he looks even more ethereal, which he did not really think possible.

“Hm,” he murmurs, tapping the end of his brush against his lips. “What colour?”

He’s been conservative, and has only brought six eyeshadow palettes with him—back home he has a whole tub of them stashed under his bed, mainly so Sanghyuk won’t find them. Even so he has a broad colour scheme from which to choose from, and tilts his head, considering as Jaehwan looks them over. “What about this one?” he says, picking up a palette with every colour of red and orange imaginable; it’s like fire in eyeshadow form, one of his favourites.

“You’re the expert,” Jaehwan murmurs, and closes his eyes dutifully.

It’s peaceful. They’ve had a lot of excitement on this trip, but this, just the two of them with the faint sounds of the TV blaring in the background, is peaceful, and Jaehwan starts to nod off when Hakyeon’s putting his eyeliner on, much to his amusement. After what they’ve been through to get here, they deserve a little peace, and while this is an unexpected place to find it he’s certainly not complaining.

“This doesn’t match,” he murmurs, choosing a lipstick from the pile and tugging at Jaehwan’s chin gently so he parts his lips. “But I really can’t resist.”

There’s something so intimate about painting Jaehwan’s lips and, acting on instinct, he grabs one of his brushes and applies it that way—the way Jihoon used to do it for him, back when he was a mortal. When he’s finished, he sits back and looks at the fruit of his labours, and sighs.

Jaehwan’s eyes are ringed by black fading into a bright red-orange, and when he opens them the effect is so startling Hakyeon’s heart damn near skips a beat. The bright scarlet of the lipstick only serves to accentuate the shape of his mouth, his beautiful plump lips open slightly to reveal the pink of his tongue. It’s lewd beyond anything Hakyeon could have ever imagined, and he’s sure he looks stupefied as Jaehwan tilts his head this way and that. “How do I look?”

“See for yourself,” Hakyeon murmurs, and slides off Jaehwan’s lap so he can make his way over to the mirror.

“Oh wow,” he murmurs, and leans in close, shifts his wings away; now it’s _really_ eerie, because with his tattoos gone, he looks like someone else entirely. “Wow. I didn’t realise—I didn’t know my face could look like this.”

When he turns back his eyes are black, and Hakyeon gulps. Jaehwan with no makeup is impossibly beautiful, but looking like this—he looks like a fae, like a God, like nothing Hakyeon’s ever known before but something he wants more of regardless. “Come here,” he says, and swallows thickly.

Jaehwan is nothing if not perceptive, but he doesn’t even need to be; Hakyeon’s eyes are glowing as yellow as a beacon as he slides back on the bed and laces their fingers together. “I don’t want to share you,” Jaehwan whispers hoarsely. “At least not tonight.”

“Good, because I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Hakyeon says, and leans in to brush Jaehwan’s hair away from his forehead. “Not looking like that.”

Never has shapeshifting been more of a boon than now, because instantly Hakyeon’s naked and the feel of Jaehwan’s skin on his—hot, he always runs so hot, like he’s burning up—is heady, as always. They kiss sloppily and messily and when Jaehwan pulls back to lick a circle around Hakyeon’s nipple, he starts laughing. “You have lipstick all over your mouth,” he murmurs, and then reaches down between them to take Hakyeon’s cock in his hand.

“Want me to shift it away?” Hakyeon chokes out, digging his nails into Jaehwan’s back, slightly amused he can do so; they rarely fuck without Jaehwan’s wings being a part of the equation, but then, tonight is different, in a lot of ways. “Want me to shift in general?”

“Put on makeup like mine,” Jaehwan mumbles into the skin of Hakyeon’s hip, looking up at him with those bottomless black eyes.

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow but does as he’s told, and the gasp from Jaehwan makes him smile. He knows what he looks like with makeup, and, because he has a flair for the spectacular, he’s added gold eyeliner in place of black, and has lengthened his hair a little. “How do I look?”

“Different,” Jaehwan murmurs, and then he’s leaning over Hakyeon again. “So different. I love it.”

Looking up at him like that—he’s like Jaehwan, but not—he has the spark of an idea, but it’s not until Jaehwan rolls over and pulls Hakyeon on top of him that it seeds into a fully-fledged one, and his eyes blaze and his heart starts racing. “I have a proposal,” he starts, drumming his fingers on Jaehwan’s chest and grinding down on his hips slowly. “And you can say no if you want. I won’t be offended.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Jaehwan replies with a lewd wink.

“How about this: _I_ fuck _you_ ,” he says, watching Jaehwan’s face very carefully.

He’s excellent at gauging Jaehwan’s expressions when his eyes are black, now, and what crosses his face first is surprise, and then indecision, and then finally a grin that spreads widely across his lips as he settles his hands on Hakyeon’s ass. “For you, little incubus, anything.” He then raises one eyebrow and sits up to kiss Hakyeon on the lips gently. “I thought you were about to suggest something _really_ kinky.”

“Later,” Hakyeon replies dismissively, and splays a hand on Jaehwan’s chest, pushing him back down on the bed. “Stay there.”

Jaehwan never does as he’s told. It’s just a theme; Hakyeon will tell him to stay, and he’ll go, or Hakyeon will tell him to leave him alone, give him a few more hours sleep, please, it’s still early, and Jaehwan will counter that it’s midday and they’re on holiday and can’t do _everything_ at night and drag Hakyeon out of bed anyway. It’s infuriating, maddeningly so, but he’s used to it by now. Now, however? Jaehwan’s glued to the bed, chest heaving as he watches Hakyeon cross the floor to their suitcases to fetch the lube. He doesn’t move an inch, he _obeys_ , and Hakyeon’s head swims with the power that Jaehwan’s just granted him.

“I want you,” he murmurs between kisses, moving his way up Jaehwan’s body from his calves, “to keep your wings in. And not come until I tell you. Is that okay?”

It takes a few seconds for Jaehwan’s nod to come, but when it does, it’s eager. His reluctance comes not from the orgasm control, Hakyeon knows—they do that pretty regularly, albeit Hakyeon’s usually on the receiving end of it—but from the command to keep his wings in. That is nearly impossible the more he gets turned on, but for once Hakyeon wants to see him squirm, and the look on his face when Hakyeon takes his cock in his mouth, one hand circling the base, makes it all worth it. He feels a little off-kilter. Jaehwan’s always taken control, and Hakyeon’s always relinquished it eagerly. This is different, but then as he looks up at Jaehwan with those painted eyes and lips and no tattoos, it seems like it’s the night for different.

“Spread your legs,” Hakyeon murmurs, and Jaehwan does. “Good.”

Oh—oh, oh, oh, the sound of Jaehwan’s little moan at the praise makes his heart stop in his chest, or seem to, and he can’t breathe suddenly. He hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted this. Jaehwan’s so eager as he pours some lube on his fingers and circles one around his entrance; he fists his hands in the blankets and moans even louder when Hakyeon starts fingering him, moving slowly. It’s not like Jaehwan won’t say stop if he doesn’t like it—consent has always been freely given between them—but he’s just being careful, taking his time, letting him get used to the sensations, letting himself taste Jaehwan’s energy, just sipping for now. “Fuck,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Jaehwan. “You’re gorgeous.”

Jaehwan whines and writhes, and the unspoken desire to let his wings free is burning at him, Hakyeon knows. Sometimes—just sometimes, although it’s rare—he gets flashes of what it’s like to be in Jaehwan’s head when he feeds from him. Most of the time it’s terrifying, a slightly more pleasant version of what Taekwoon’s head was like; true immortal minds are very different to false immortal minds, after all. He gets one such flash now, and all he feels is his wings, burning in his back, and the pleasure between his legs.

“I never thought I’d say this, little incubus,” Jaehwan croaks, and reaches for Hakyeon’s hand. “But please fuck me. Put me out of my misery.”

“You’re deluding yourself if you think _that_ will put you out of your misery,” Hakyeon replies, sliding his fingers out with a wicked grin. “But as you wish.”

He catches the back of Jaehwan’s knees with his palms, lining himself up with his entrance and hesitating only for a second—and it’s worth it to hear Jaehwan start to beg, his voice turning high and melodic the way it does when he’s really desperate. “Please, Hakyeon, please just—”

Hakyeon shuts him up by fucking into him in a smooth slow stroke that leaves the both of them winded. Jaehwan’s eyes snap open and he heaves a rattling breath in, and Hakyeon exhales shakily, and all he can think about is _giving and taking yin and yang dark and light right and wrong him and me_. “You okay?” he murmurs, holding himself still, arms trembling.

“Believe it or not, I _have_ done this before,” Jaehwan replies, and winks—but it’s with none of his usual bravado. In fact he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Hakyeon murmurs, and as if in revenge Jaehwan tightens around him and all sarcasm flies away—he’s too busy seeing white noise.

It’s primal and raw and somehow still tender; Hakyeon’s not fucking Jaehwan like how he fucks Sanghyuk, hard and fast and rough because that’s the way they both like it. This is different; it’s flashes of Jaehwan, face screwed up as he battles with the pleasure and the desire to let his wings free. It’s Hakyeon trailing one hand down his side to hitch Jaehwan’s legs up higher, wrap them around his waist. It’s how anguished Jaehwan looks when he opens his eyes to kiss Hakyeon, making the softest little whines you could almost miss them. It’s only then that Hakyeon gets it, truly understands what it means for him to give up control like this, and he has to look away in case he says something stupid and maudlin. “I love you,” he eventually chokes out, feeling like he’ll explode if he doesn’t say _something_. “I love you—”

“I love you more, little incubus—ah!” Jaehwan’s breath hitches in his throat as Hakyeon changes angles, and his fingers scrabble for purchase on Hakyeon’s back. “Please—please let me—”

“Not yet,” Hakyeon whispers, and kisses him.

The threads of Jaehwan’s anguish wind around his own throat, choke him, make it hard to breathe, hard to see, hard to do anything except fuck into Jaehwan. He creeps ever-closer to the edge of desperation, and he thinks he might last until Jaehwan starts sobbing—oh, god, he actually sobs, and says, “I can’t do it anymore, I’m sorry—” and then his wings are unfolding with a rush.

They’re spread out on the bed underneath them, and Hakyeon takes a second to pause and take in the view. Jaehwan is flushed and sweaty, his hair messy, his lipstick ruined beyond saving; he writhes and blushes under the scrutiny, which only makes him more beautiful to Hakyeon. His wings, enormous and impossibly black, contrast with the rest of him, and he cries out when Hakyeon reaches down between them to circle a hand around his cock. “I wanna come with you,” he mutters, and Jaehwan closes his eyes and reaches for him.

They come wordlessly, breathing into each other’s mouths, Hakyeon fucking into Jaehwan just as desperately as Jaehwan is arching up into him. There’s no sensations beyond pleasure, just blackness when Hakyeon closes his eyes and then, as expected, the rush of Jaehwan’s energy filling him, invigorating him, making him truly alive for what seems like the first time in centuries.

“You okay?” he murmurs into the skin of Jaehwan’s neck a few moments later. He hasn’t moved, is still inside Jaehwan, wanting to savour the moment.

Jaehwan’s arms and wings come around him, and he sighs happily. “Yeah. I am.”

At this Hakyeon sits up slowly to cup Jaehwan on the cheek. “Thank you,” he says, and he tries to express that he knows what it meant for Jaehwan to give like that; they’ve had sex in fifty million different ways over the years but nothing, not even the very first time, has quite felt like that before. Looking down at him, with his beautiful makeup ruined and a smile on his face, Hakyeon thinks that maybe—maybe they’re gonna be okay.

Maybe he’s gonna be okay.

 

 _ **30 June 2023**_  
_**Rio de Janeiro, Brazil**_  
The nightmares don’t go away.

He does everything he knows how to get rid of them. He sleeps with Jaehwan. He sleeps alone. He takes sleeping pills. He considers asking Jaehwan to knock him out, but reconsiders almost immediately. Jaehwan doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten, and Hakyeon doesn’t want to tell him. There’s nothing to tell, anyway, beyond the darkness that sits in his heart by day and the nightmares that torture him by night.

They’re not even horrifying nightmares. Often he’s just surrounded by white feathers with no one else in sight. But it’s not the feathers themselves, it’s what they represent, and that is more terrifying than anything he can put in words.

“Drink?” Jaehwan yells in his ear.

They’re in a club, sweltering in the heat and humidity that comes part and parcel with being so close to the equator—but otherwise they could be in Seoul. The humans look different, and they’re speaking a different language, but there’s still dancing, still flirting, and it’s still a hunting ground for a hungry incubus. Hakyeon nods at Jaehwan, figuring it’s too loud to talk, and slips away onto the dance floor.

It’s not long before he’s approached by someone, a woman who smiles broadly; it’s the type of smile that says _I know what you’re here for,_ and he smiles back as she slides closer and yells into his ear, “Como é que você se chama?” _What’s your name?_

“Oliver,” he yells back.

She doesn’t attempt conversation beyond that, and for that he’s grateful—they’ve been here for two weeks and he’s picked up the very basics of Portuguese, but Jaehwan’s much better at it than he is (he’s nearly as much as a savant of languages as Wonshik is)—and before long they’re dancing very close together indeed. A lot of things have changed in the world since Hakyeon was last in it, but desire is one thing that hasn’t, and he’s not sure if it ever will. When they kiss her energy flows into him like a beacon, refreshing and light, and when he pulls back they’re smiling—albeit she’s a little woozy as she staggers away, and he watches her go carefully to make sure she doesn’t fall.

He turns to try and find Jaehwan, although he’s probably still at the bar, and that’s when his world shatters.

Tall. Lean. A tiny waist and long, endlessly long legs. Fine black hair. When he turns, Hakyeon can see the outline of a jaw, an all-too familiar shape that has him shuddering, fingers clenching on nothing. How can he be _here?_ How can Taekwoon have followed him across continents—across time—like he’s a demon sent from hell to haunt Hakyeon—

And then he turns and Hakyeon slumps. It’s not Taekwoon, not at all, just someone who looks like him from the back; from the front the resemblance is non-existent. Relief courses through him, flushing out the dread, and with his heart still beating on his tongue he muscles through the crowd to circle a hand around Jaehwan’s forearm. “Let’s go.”

“Incubus?” Jaehwan looks down at him and squints. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“No, I’m fine,” Hakyeon replies, and starts dragging Jaehwan towards the exit. “I’m just—it’s too hot. Need to get fresh air.”

But the air is no less oppressive once they spill onto the street, and Hakyeon knows it has nothing to do with the temperature. He needs distraction, badly, because as he’s tugging Jaehwan along by the hand all he can see is Taekwoon’s face in his mind, and has to bite back tears. How can he still be haunting Hakyeon’s days and nights? What did he ever do to deserve this?

“Hakyeon, tell me what’s wrong. I’m worried—” Jaehwan starts as Hakyeon drags them into an alley, away from prying eyes and streetlights, and promptly throws himself into Jaehwan’s arms and kisses him. “Hakyeon, seriously. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Hakyeon pants, fumbling for his shirt and ripping it over his head. He’s too keyed-up to even think of shapeshifting; that’s how bad it is. “I just need you to touch me— _please_ —”

The desperation in his tone gets through to Jaehwan, and so he kisses back, albeit slightly reluctantly. “You’re gonna have to tell me what’s wrong one day, you know,” he whispers, running his hands down Hakyeon’s sides, one falling on his ass and one cupping the front of his jeans.

Hakyeon grinds into the feeling of him and lets his touch chase away Taekwoon’s demons. “I know,” he replies, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. “Just—not today. Not now.”

 

 _ **12 February 2024**_  
_**Toronto, Canada**_  
They’re leaving a bar, stumbling through the snow with their arms wrapped around each other, laughing about everything and nothing at all—“I thought,” Hakyeon gasps, “I thought I couldn’t feel cold, but I swear to god my balls are freezing off,”—when she appears in front of them with a smile and the all-too familiar scent of lavender.

 _Not Taekwoon_ , his mind tells him, but—he sees, he sees Taekwoon through the panic that chokes him, and he gasps and pulls Jaehwan behind him as they stop. She can’t know. Whatever she wants, she can’t know. He can feel Jaehwan take a frosty inhale and prays, prays even though he’s not religious, that this night does not end in violence.

“Hello,” he says courteously, and smiles. If his teeth are chattering he can just blame the cold. “Can we help you?” He pauses and raises an eyebrow. “Are we in trouble?”

Her smile grows even wider. She really is quite pretty, he supposes; all angels are, in a cold sort of way. “Not at all! I’m sorry to have frightened you. I just wanted to welcome you to the area.”

He’s not breathing, he realises faintly. He doesn’t need to, but the fact that his body is quite literally refusing to inhale and exhale means—well, he doesn’t know what it means. His vision is narrowed down on her, of the snow swirling around them, and Taekwoon’s name is beating hot and fast in his heart. _Threat threat threat threat threat_ , his mind is screaming, _run_.

“How very Canadian of you,” he says instead, and winks at her. Let her think he’s a typical incubus whore. If it gets them out of here sooner, that’s all that matters. “Do you usually welcome everyone?”

“Every new immortal, yes!” She nods her head at Jaehwan, frozen behind Hakyeon; thank god it’s winter, and thank god he’s wearing gloves. “And I am also to give you a reminder to not partake in, er, feeding activities with mortals in public. It’s forbidden.”

“Forbidden?” He’s not even speaking, he realises. Something has taken over his body and is going through the motions, because he is somewhere very far away in his mind, locked in battle with himself. “I… understand.”

“Great!” She gives them a little wave and another smile. “And don’t stay out in the snow too long!”

She’s gone, and Hakyeon’s legs give way. “Get me out of here,” he murmurs, unseeing eyes dancing with visions of—of him.

Jaehwan crouches in front of him and puts two hands on Hakyeon’s shoulders, but they’re beyond that now, so far beyond that. “Hakyeon—”

“Get me the _fuck_ out of here!” Hakyeon screams in his face, not caring that Jaehwan is horrified, because then they’re blinking out and blinking back in to their hotel room.

Warm. Too warm. He stands up and yanks off his gloves and beanie, skin burning up; Jaehwan is watching, crying, crying? But Hakyeon can’t stop. _Threat threat threat threat threat_ , his heart beats. _Taekwoon_. He closes his eyes and sees him, opens his eyes and sees black eyes looming over him, and shrieks in fear.

“Hakyeon,” Jaehwan’s saying, begging, and then he’s capturing Hakyeon’s hands in his own. “Hakyeon, my love, come back to me—”

But Hakyeon’s gone. He’s a ball of blind panic, of fear, of years and years worth of—of what? Of visions, of shadows at the edge of his peripheral, of always looking over his shoulder, of darkness turning his insides from healthy to tainted. Of a dread the likes of which he’s never felt before, especially as _he should not be feeling this_. Taekwoon is dead. If he’s not dead, he’s wounded beyond belief and is certainly not a threat. But it’s not the real-life Taekwoon that’s haunting him now. It’s the Taekwoon of his dreams and of his nightmares, the Taekwoon that’s ever-present, the Taekwoon that’s only just now clawing his way free, ripping Hakyeon’s chest in two. Seven years. It’s been seven years since Hakyeon last laid eyes on him, but he’s here now, as real as the air he breathes, as real as Jaehwan trying desperately to hold him together.

“Don’t touch me,” he gasps, climbing onto the bed just to get away from him. “Don’t you touch me, you look like him, you’re—”

“I’m not moving.” Jaehwan puts both hands in the air and stays where he is, hovering at the foot of the bed. “Look. I’m not him.” As if to prove his point he lets his wings erupt with the tearing of fabric and spreads them, and Hakyeon sees black but over it a ghostly impression of white and screams, tearing at his own eyes as if to claw them out.

He’s stopped by hands closing over his own, and then Jaehwan’s pulling him close; he doesn’t let go when Hakyeon struggles and screams, holds on as Hakyeon shifts into all manner of beasts, demons from the darkest depths of his mind, the pure physical embodiment of raw fear. He doesn’t let go until Hakyeon is spent and exhausted and sobbing, and then circles his wings around him. “He’s not real,” he says, and he’s hoarse, sounds as tired as Hakyeon feels. “I know it feels it, my love, but he’s not real. He can’t hurt you anymore. Look at me.”

Hakyeon does, bleary eyes seeing nothing but Jaehwan’s familiar features this time. “He’s always been with me,” he rasps, and when he blinks he sees that female angel out in the snow, her smile, Taekwoon’s own sadistic one. “Will it never end?”

Instead of answering properly, Jaehwan just cradles Hakyeon’s head. “Sleep,” he whispers, and with a rush of familiar energy, Hakyeon does.

//

He doesn’t even have the luxury of forgetting when he wakes up. He doesn’t get a grace period; he doesn’t get to sleepily worm his way into Jaehwan’s arms and complain about being woken up. Instead he sits bolt upright, the panic choking him again, and then Jaehwan’s there, pushing him gently back down on the bed. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together with patent concern. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

“Get me the fuck out of here,” Hakyeon says, and grabs his hand, an echo of last night.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he half-yells, sitting up and curling into a ball, “not this city, not this country. Whatever. Take me somewhere else.”

“But—we don’t have flights—”

Curse his stupid insistence on doing everything the human way. Jaehwan’d resisted at first, saying he could just teleport them anywhere they wanted to go, but Hakyeon had said that was cheating and he was going to hire a travel agent and do it the proper way, and so off they’d went. They’ve been booking their flights as they go along, and they’ve only just arrived in Canada, and as such, have nothing prepared. But all of that pales when Hakyeon remembers last night. He can’t stand here to be any longer. “Just fucking do it, Jaehwan, _please_.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care!”

Jaehwan flattens his lips in a line but reaches for Hakyeon anyway, grabbing his hand, and then they’re blinking away from it all with a rush of power and nausea that Hakyeon welcomes because this, at least, is familiar.

 

 _ **13 February 2024**_  
_**Tromsø, Norway**_  
He sleeps.

He’s catatonic as Jaehwan finds them accommodation last minute, stirring only to glamour the receptionist at the biggest hotel on town as per Jaehwan’s request. Just like magic she finds them a free room, and then Jaehwan tucks him into bed and blinks in and out several times, presumably collecting their luggage from Canada. Hakyeon doesn’t care. This is a different country—he doesn’t know what one, but it’s damn cold—and therefore he’s away from the threat. He’s safe.

He sleeps, and Jaehwan watches over him.

//

“Come on, incubus. Wake up.”

There’s no point arguing, not when Jaehwan gets like that; Hakyeon’s heard that tone more times than he can count. And besides, he’s spent a long time in bed. He doesn’t even know how much, just that it was a lot; the sun rose and set a few times, but still he slept fitfully, free of nightmares but waking to visions of nonsense that bothered him until he fell back asleep again. “Fine,” he whispers, sitting up and looking up at Jaehwan, before squinting at the blinds. Darkness. “What time is it?”

At this, Jaehwan sits on the bed next to him and smiles. “Nine pm.”

“And where the hell are we?”

“Norway.”

Hakyeon splutters, at last fully waking up. “ _Norway?_ What the hell?”

“Hey, you didn’t give me a destination,” Jaehwan replies, throwing his hands in the air. “It was the first place that came to mind. We’re in Tromsø. It’s in the north.”

“The north of Norway,” Hakyeon mutters to himself. “Right.”

The temptation to go back to bed is overwhelming, especially as Jaehwan’s still _looking_ at him, his gaze unescapable. It fills up the room with its omniscience, and at once Hakyeon realises that Jaehwan knew all along about the nightmares, about the depression. He just mustn’t have expected it to get as bad as it did.

Truth be told, neither did Hakyeon.

“Come on, then,” he sighs, and gets out of bed, feeling slightly wobbly. “I guess we have stuff to talk about.”

“You can say that again,” Jaehwan replies, eyeing him warily.

//

It’s a cloudy night, but unlike the mortals they don’t have to worry about the cold—it’s not that much worse than Toronto, surprisingly—and so make their way outside in light down jackets and beanies and gloves, holding hands and not speaking. Hakyeon can’t form the right words, and Jaehwan seems to be waiting, so they just wander through the city towards the outskirts. Hakyeon spots a hill and makes his way towards it and they settle down in the snow, wincing at the wet but otherwise unbothered by the cold.

“Hakyeon—” Jaehwan starts, and then cuts himself off. In the darkness, Hakyeon can see an unreadable expression on his face. “Why didn’t you say something, my love?”

That was the wrong thing to say, because Hakyeon’s instantly on the defensive, and he folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “Why didn’t _you_ say something? You knew, didn’t you?”

“I knew you were struggling,” Jaehwan replies hesitantly. “I could see that something’s been bothering you all this time. But I didn’t realise it was this severe… I thought you’d talk to me about it in your own time.” He pauses and looks at the ground. “It’s Taekwoon, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Since we left Seoul, in differing increments. Sometimes it was just this feeling of uneasiness. Sometimes it was… worse. Nightmares. Seeing things.” He shudders and looks away. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know if I want to know.”

Jaehwan opens his mouth to say something, but pauses; he’s seen the same thing that Hakyeon has, and they squint at each other curiously. “Hakyeon, you’re glowing blue.”

“So are you,” Hakyeon counters, and looks up—and gasps. “Oh, fuck.”

The clouds have parted, mostly, and with a strange hissing and crackling noise it seems to descend on them, lights and colours the likes of which Hakyeon has never seen before outside of photos. _Aurora borealis_ , he realises faintly; the northern lights. It’s absolutely stunning, and they sit in silence for a while, bathing in the undulating colours. It’s just solar radiation reacting with the atmosphere, Hakyeon knows, but for one strange long moment he feels like maybe it could be magic.

“You need to tell me these things,” Jaehwan says eventually, reaching across the breach to take Hakyeon’s hand. “I can’t help you unless I know. And I know, what it’s like… I remember in the beginning. I was afraid of everything, but couldn’t show it, and then it all just… collapsed.” He tugs at Hakyeon so their eyes meet. “You don’t have to… I don’t know. But you’re not alone.”

“I never thought I was,” Hakyeon murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away from the aurora. “But it’s just… It was easier to push it away when Taekwoon was real, you know? When we were in the thick of it. But it seemed so stupid to be hung up on it now. Even Sanghyuk’s fine.”

That’s something that he’d made sure of before they left, and it’s why they’d hung around in Seoul for three years even though Hakyeon’s skin was itching to leave. It had taken Sanghyuk a while to get over the worst of his flashbacks and nightmares, but by the time they left he was fine—as fine as the rest of them, which probably isn’t fine by the normal definition, but it works for them.

“It’s not stupid.” Jaehwan shuffles a little closer. “We don’t have a lot in this world, incubus, by nature of what we are. The only things we can rely on are those closest to us.”

“I know.”

“I want to help you.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

At this Hakyeon laughs. “I do know that,” he replies, and leans his head on Jaehwan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for keeping it bottled up. I just—I didn’t even know where to begin. I still don’t.”

“Neither do I. But that’s the point. We can work through it together.”

“You sound like a fucking life coach,” Hakyeon snipes, and laughs when Jaehwan jabs him in the ribs. “Okay. I get it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hid it from you… And I don’t know if I’m going to be okay from now. This,” and here he gestures at the aurora with his free hand, but really meaning he and Jaehwan’s conversation, “is beautiful, but it’s not a cure for whatever the hell is wrong with me.”

“No, but it’s a start,” Jaehwan murmurs.

“It’s a start,” Hakyeon agrees, and squeezes Jaehwan’s hand.

 

 _ **4th February 2027**_  
_**Seoul, Korea**_  
He dreams of flying and feathers, and when he wakes, there’s a human peering down at him.

“Get up,” she barks, and then kicks him in the thigh. He just stares. “Move!”

She’s the oldest human he’s ever seen; her eyes are a map of wrinkles and she’s so bent over she looks like a comma. Even after ten years he still doesn’t know what to do with mortals. They’re an enigma, the very things his kind was created to look over but with which he has no personal experience. That was never his job. He was created to rend and tear and destroy, and that’s all he can do.

 _Could_ do. Not any longer.

“What—” he tries to say, and then finds that words won’t come at all. He’s barely spoken in the last ten years. Muscles, much like the mind, atrophy if unused. “What are you—”

She kicks him in the thigh again, and because he is terrified of her, he obliges, sitting up and scooting backward. As he does so he can see behind her a cart stuffed full of folded cardboard boxes, but he doesn’t even get a chance to examine that concept before she bends even further over to peer at the soggy piece of cardboard he’d chosen as a bed last night, and hisses in displeasure. “Blood everywhere. What’s wrong with you? You dying?”

He blinks up at her. Even on his knees she’s only a few inches taller than him. He doesn’t really know what to say. ‘Yes’ is a lie. ‘I hope so’ is incredibly bleak. He would joke, if he knew how to. No one ever taught him.

“By increments,” he replies eventually, and she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and points at the puddle of blood forming around him.

“Still bleeding.”

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. “For as long as I can remember.”

That is a half-lie, the novelty of which has not quite worn off, even though the only lies he’s had cause to tell have been to himself. Before—and it’s Before with a capital, a Distinct Event—he couldn’t lie. It was impossible for him to. Now? Now he could tell this ancient mortal he was Cleopatra of the Nile and his tongue would form the words.

He doesn’t, though, mainly because she starts smacking him on the shoulder. “Up, up!” she shrieks, and he does, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

A mortal has never touched him before. He can still read her thoughts, but they’re clouded, misty, muddled with her age. Something sparks underneath the apathy, and he just nods when she points at the cardboard and then at the cart, picks it up and deposits it inside, and then—

“Come,” she orders, and then turns and hobbles away.

He presumes she means for him to bring the cart, and so he follows, feeling more lost than ever.

//

She stops in front of a house and tells him to dump the cart before heading inside. When she turns in the doorway to find him still standing on the footpath outside her house, peering at it like it’s about to eat him, she tuts again and shuffles back to grab him by the elbow and drag him inside. _Strange man_ , he catches flowing through her mind, and ducks his head so she cannot see him smile.

“Lie down.” She points at the floor in front of the television and turns away, implicitly trusting that he will. “Face down. Shirt off.”

Taking orders is what he does best, so he does, folding his shirt neatly even though it’s grey—once it was white—and stiff with dirt and grime. He’s sure his hair is matted beyond saving. He lost the ability to shapeshift when the incubus took his wings.

She hisses when she sees the wounds, kneeling on the floor next to him with a clean cloth and two bowls of water. He knows what they look like only because he’d looked, the day after. What he’d saw frightened him so much he never looked again: two huge slit-shaped wounds where his wings used to be, starting in the middle of his shoulder blades and ending above his hips, constantly weeping blood. He doesn’t know why he’s still bleeding. He doesn’t know why he’s not dead. All he knows is the blood, the coppery, tangy scent of it, of always feeling wet.

“What happened to you?” she asks, and he nearly howls when she presses the cloth to the wound.

He wants to ask _why are you doing this?_ but instead what comes out is the truth, which is what he least expects. “My wings were ripped from me,” he chokes out, although the correct word is _cut_ and not _ripped_ he hopes she’ll get the idea. “Ten years ago.”

She pauses from sponging off his lower back to lay a hand on his shoulder, and when she does he gets a wave of—warmth. “Angel?” she whispers, and for just one second Taekwoon nearly feels whole again, like he can feel God’s light once more. But then she places the cloth back onto his wounds and he is nothing again.

“Not anymore.”

They don’t speak any further as she cleans him and then fetches bandages. He tries to tell her that it doesn’t matter, that she’ll just have to change them in twenty minutes, but she bats him away as if he was a fly and not a not-angel-not-human twice her size and bandages his back anyway. He stammers on _thank you_ , not used to saying it to a human. She just shrugs. “Stay. You have the couch.”

He doesn’t have the energy to protest. He sleeps a lot, these days. Maybe it’s his way of dying in increments like he told her. So he just crawls onto the couch, curls up in a ball, closes his eyes and gives into the dreams of what he once was.

//

He rises with the dawn and finds her already awake, bustling about in the kitchen, making no attempt to be quiet. She seems to know he’s awake without turning and grunts, “Table,” so he gets up and—

“I’ve bled on your sofa,” he says quietly, realising with horror that in the night he’s bled through the bandages and all on the sofa cushions.

Her eyes widen when she turns, as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right (don’t old mortals lose their senses?). But sure enough he can feel the blood running down his waist, his thighs, and when he glances down he can see it’s already beginning to pool at his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and finds that that word is foreign to his lips, too.

After a moment she just shrugs and points at the table again. “Sit. Doesn’t matter.”

He’s not sure she’s telling the truth, but doesn’t have the energy to protest. He does, however, find the words when she slides a plate of fried rice in front of him and hands him chopsticks and a spoon. “A—I don’t—” he starts, trying to say _angels don’t need to eat_ before remembering he’s not an angel anymore and shuts his mouth. “I don’t need food.”

“Everyone needs food,” she mutters, and sits in the chair across from him and flicks on a tiny television that he hadn’t noticed before, over his left shoulder.

He’s never eaten before, he realises, staring down at the plate. Why would he? Mortal pleasures were so very far below him, Before. And in the years since, he just hasn’t been hungry. His body craves many things now—sleep, for one—but food has never been one of them. Can he even eat? Will it make him sick?

Does it even matter anymore?

He spoons some rice up to his mouth and sniffs it. His immortal senses are dulled, but even so, all he can smell is the spices from the kimchi it’s been cooked with, traces of the dirt that the rice was grown in, and so shovels it into his mouth with no poise at all. He catches her watching him as he eats, warily at first but enthusiastically as he realises how good it tastes, and he thinks he sees her smile before she turns back to the television.

“I’ll bandage you again,” she says when he’s finished. “And then we’ll go.”

He doesn’t ask where. He just nods, feeling rather sleepy and… stuffed. This must be what mortals mean when they say they’re full—an accurate descriptor. He almost feels like he’s waddling as he makes his way back over to the floor in front of the bigger television, taking off his shirt and lying down once more. In fact, he’s half-asleep as she potters about, turning on a radio and filling a bowl with water before settling next to him.

Then, of course, the smell hits him.

He’s up and on his feet in a second. If he’d thought his immortal reflexes had abandoned him, they’re certainly present now, because he’s backed in a corner hissing at her before his sleepy brain can even catch up. Her eyes widen when she sees his fangs, and widen even more when a crackle of residual power makes its way through his body, bending his spine and forcing him to his knees.

She still doesn’t move, though, kneeling on the floor with a sprig of lavender in her hand.

“Don’t,” he chokes out, the pain tearing him apart from the inside out. “Don’t—”

“I won’t.” She takes the rest of the lavender from where it was lying on the floor and gets up very slowly, palms out as if she is attempting to placate a scared animal.

He watches her back away with wild eyes, and the moment she’s out of the room slumps face-first onto the rug, the world going black and red and then ceasing to exist at all.

//

This time he wakes because she’s hurting him, and in his confusion nearly rears up before he realises she’s just cleaning his back again and collapses back down, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. “There’s no point,” he whispers. From his vantage point he can see a thick layer of dust under the sofa, and wonders how long it’s been since she had company. “It won’t stop.”

“How long?” When he doesn’t say anything, she presses into one of the wounds (the left one, the one stolen from him first, taken with an embrace and a whisper of pity that passed from the incubus’ mind to his) until he hisses. “How _long?”_

“Ten years,” he spits, and curls both hands into fists.

Because she’s touching him, he reads her shock, clear as day; either he’s getting better at reading her or she’s less muddled than she was yesterday. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Her shock is followed by pity and then curiosity, but she doesn’t ask. He considers thanking God for that, but reconsiders. God isn’t listening.

When he’s bandaged up again, she fetches him a clean shirt and presses it into his hands. He stares at it before raising it to his face and smelling it; all he can sense is laundry detergent and dust. “Why?”

“My son’s,” she replies, and turns away, and he knows that’s all the answer he’ll get from her.

//

The days blur into nights, and the nights blur into days, and time soon returns to its routine of ceasing all meaning.

He wakes when she tells him to, eats what she puts in front of him, doesn’t say a word when she insists on bandaging his back. It’s almost soothing, in a way. To return to serving after years of being adrift is somewhat reassuring to his tortured soul. The fact that he’s now serving a mortal instead of God is of no concern to him. The apathy has taken over his limbs and it’s the only thing that keeps him carving out this slice of mundane domesticity that he knows he does not deserve.

He never does find out what happened to her son. There are photos of him scattered around the place, but he does not ask, and she does not say. Instead she does most of the talking for him; it’s almost like she’s glad to have someone around. After a while, Taekwoon starts to return the sentiment. It’s odd; he doesn’t even know her name. But it doesn’t matter. They’re two lonely ancient beings, not long for the eternal sleep, meeting each dawn as it comes and going from there.

//

One morning, he oversleeps.

He’s woken not by her squawking but by a bolt of sunlight directly in his eye, and when he rolls over to escape it falls from the sofa into a puddle of his own blood. It splashes onto his face and he gasps awake—this is not normal, or it’s not the normal he’s come to expect. He’s no stranger to his own blood, but he’s usually bandaged by now, they’re usually watching television or doing the crossword. He wipes at it half-heartedly and clambers to his feet, tracking bloody footprints through the tiny house as he looks for her.

There’s one bedroom that he’s never been in, and he hesitates at the closed door. This almost feels like an invasion of privacy. She’s never pushed, never asked him detailed questions about what he is or why he’s so broken. Doing this is crossing a boundary he didn’t even realise existed—but. Midday. Did she leave without him?

He relaxes when he pushes open the door and finds nothing but a miniscule bedroom, furnished with a tiny chest of drawers and a single bed. There’s a thick layer of dust on every surface, and the sunlight streaming in through the ripped curtains should be enough to wake her, but the lump under the covers doesn’t move. He only stands in the doorway for a moment before crossing the floor to put a hand on her shoulder and shake her gently, mouth already forming a placid chastisement.

The words die the moment he’s close enough to touch. He feels nothing. There’s no life force, and when he reaches for her hand lying on the blanket, it’s cold. Worse than that is how he can’t feel her. It’s not that her mind is empty. It’s that it’s not there to be read.

In her sleep, unbeknownst to him, she’s slipped away and left him here.

He’s only felt panic once before (blind panic, after the incubus took his wing, raining blows upon the nephilim in a battle that was kill or be killed) but he recognises it now as it winds his way up his throat, and then his legs sort of give way and he slumps to the floor next to the bed, staring into nothing.

She can’t be _gone_. Surely mortals can’t just die like that. He knows they are prone to dying, but not like this; this is as quick as a flame being extinguished. One moment she was here—last night they’d both laughed at a comedy show on the television, and Taekwoon had faintly realised that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed—and the next…

Gone.

//

He stares at the telephone warily.

He knows how it works, in theory. He also knows that her body will decompose, will turn to the dust from whence it came, and as such he cannot leave her here. Which means he has to use the telephone. He knows the emergency number; once when she’d taken him on the subway there’d been an ad playing on a television on the train, aimed at mortal children, teaching them safety. He remembers every minute of it, including the number that is blaring like a klaxon in his head: 119 119 119 119 119 119 119 119 119 119, over and over and over again, one plus one plus nine.

Hesitantly, he picks up the receiver. Even without bringing it to his ear he can hear a strange mechanical noise, and, figuring that that’s a good sign, holds the receiver to his ear and hovers his fingers over the buttons. One. One. Nine.

There’s a ringing sound. A click. “What’s your emergency?” the brusque female voice at the other end says, clipped, clinical. There’s no emergency. She’s dead, long-dead, and nothing these people do can change that.

“There’s a body,” he rasps, and tries again. “There’s—a body. My friend, she—”

“Okay, is your friend breathing? What’s your name?”

“No, she’s not breathing, she’s _dead_ ,” he says, frustration bubbling up in his throat. “She just died, in her sleep—you need to—”

“Sir, I need to know your name and where you’re calling from. Do you know where you are?”

He rattles off the address for her, having memorised it months ago, and then takes a raggedy inhale. “You need to come and get her and put her in the earth. I think that’s important. That she goes in the earth.”

“Sir, could you tell me your name? Sir? Sir, are you there? Sir, if you’re there, just say something, okay? Sir?”

He leaves.

//

When the police arrive they find the body of the woman in bed, exactly where he’d left her. They find her wallet with her name and use that to track down her next of kin—a son in Japan, as it turns out. They’ve been estranged for a while, but he cries when he gets the call; some bonds just cannot be broken.

They find blood all through the apartment, footsteps and puddles of it, but no sign of a struggle. The bloody feet exit out the front door, turn left onto the street, and then vanish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the painting i mentioned isn't actually on the sistine chapel ceiling at all (i had to take some artistic liberties jkshg sorry) but you can see it [here](https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-fall-of-the-rebel-angels/-gFuGVtOFBqDjg)!


	3. Chapter 3

_Our torments also may in length of time_  
_Become our Elements._  
**_― John Milton, Paradise Lost_ **  


_**12th April 2027**_  
_**Seoul, Korea**_  
Hongbin first sees him in the darkness.

It’s a territory patrol, nothing particularly exotic or out-of-the-ordinary but something he does out of habit (even though it’s probably redundant at this point). He’s been slacking on it lately, too caught up in the heady feelings of Hakyeon and Jaehwan being back, of their world being complete once more—because neither he nor Wonshik nor Sanghyuk were ever really whole without them. So instead of heading over to Hakyeon’s apartment the moment he wakes, as he’s been doing for the past fortnight, he instead rolls out of bed and heads into the night to walk.

He’s not expecting trouble, which is why when he turns into an alley—one he and Wonshik have used for feeding many, many times, because it’s so tiny and secluded—he’s daydreaming and not watching where he’s going. At the last moment he snaps back to himself to sense something soaring through the air towards him, and his body moves before he tells it to. He throws himself on the ground and is up again, whirling with fangs bared and hands curled into claws, his every synapse firing to try and find the danger. Not human—no human can move like that. Immortal? It can’t be—

He melts from the darkness in front of Hongbin, an insidious grin on his face, the very picture of vengeful rage. It’s only an image that Hongbin gets to appreciate for a minute before he leaps, and then they’re fighting, clawing at each other; Hongbin lands a punch before he’s kicked in the gut savagely and they both go spinning away from each other.

“Asshole,” he spits, one hand on his stomach.

Jiho just smiles. “Ya shouldn’t have left your territory undefended, kid,” he replies, and then they’re off again.

Woo Jiho, the proverbial thorn in Hongbin’s side—he’s known him for six decades now, possibly more, but his standing in the hierarchy of local vampires seems to have grown in the last decade for reasons unknown to Hongbin—and one that stubbornly refuses to shift. He’s older than Hongbin, even though he was turned at twenty and looks even younger than Hongbin does. This is not the first time they have come to blows. Hongbin knows it won’t be the last.

“Shouldn’t be so fucking _greedy_ ,” he snarls, managing to grab one of Jiho’s fingers and bending it back until, with a sickening crack, it breaks.

Jiho’s scream pierces the night, and Hongbin only has a chance to gloat for a moment before Jiho barrels into him with all the ferocity and speed of a freight train, slamming him into the bricks of the nearest wall so hard dust floats down around them. The sound of their bodies meeting as they punch and kick at each other sounds like thunder, hardness clashing with hardness, and even though Hongbin hates himself for feeling like this there’s a tiny part of him that relishes the chance to let go and truly be a vampire for the first time in years.

“Motherfucker,” Jiho spits, and sees an opening, lunges—Hongbin feels fangs sink into his neck and roars, this violation too much. “If you’re gonna—abandon—your territory—expect others to take over—”

Ignoring the blood flowing out of his neck—Jiho’s bite was not gentle—Hongbin punches Jiho straight in the nose, feeling it break under his fist, before catching a flailing arm in his hands and breaking that too.

They pull back and regard each other. Jiho’s gasping for air that he doesn’t need, his right arm mangled and with blood sluggishly dripping from his nose; when Hongbin feels his throat he realises it’s torn open savagely, flesh hanging loose and blood all down his front. This isn’t good. He’d already been on the low end, needing to feed soon, but this… If this continues he knows he’s going to run out of energy soon enough.

“It’s been my territory for a century,” Hongbin says, trying to speak through the blood filling his throat and just sounding like he’s underwater. Gross. “And it was Wonshik’s for longer than that.”

Even Jiho stills at the mention of Wonshik’s name. “So? You left—”

“For a fucking fortnight, you opportunistic bastard.”

The insult is not one Jiho can ignore (as Hongbin had predicted) and so he charges at Hongbin again. But Hongbin’s been fighting Jiho long enough to know his tells, and it’s almost easy, the way he pirouettes—Hakyeon would be proud—and grabs Jiho’s ruined arm, forcing it behind him until he feels it pop out of its socket.

He does not even get a chance to feel satisfaction at that because, instead of falling to his knees like Hongbin expected he would, Jiho whirls, twisting his arm around hideously in a way that makes Hongbin sick to see—and then his hand comes up and claws at Hongbin’s left eye.

The pain and the shock of having one of his eyes gouged out comes second to the fact that Jiho’s still standing, and even with his entire right arm out of commission he’s still a threat. But Hongbin’s senses adjust immediately, his body on the back foot but still trying to heal—although by now he’s running on fumes—and when Jiho comes for him again he’s ready.

“Get the fuck out of my territory,” he growls, wrapping a hand around Jiho’s throat and squeezing with everything he’s got. “Before I rip your fucking head off and drink every last drop from your fucking worthless body.” When Jiho doesn’t flinch, he raises an eyebrow. “Or before I call Wonshik.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Wonshik’s already on the way, given what he must be feeling through the bond right now, and it’s this that makes Jiho’s eyes go wide, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. Hongbin lets him go and they step away warily, not trusting each other in the slightest. “Tell your maker to go fuck himself,” Jiho spits, backing away. “And stay the fuck away from my territory or I’ll take your other eye.”

He disappears into the night, and Hongbin’s legs give way.

He knows, as he lies there on the ground, that he needs to get up and go home—no, he needs to get up and feed, desperately. When he raises a hand to his throat he can feel that the wound is only half-closed—that’s all his healing got to do before he ran out of energy. As it is he’s still got a gaping wound in his neck leaking blood slowly, and a ruined eye, and his whole body hurts all over… It’d be nice to lay here for a while. That would be easy. Letting go…

But he doesn’t let go at all. Instead he’s on his feet and making his way out of the alley before he can even process it. He’s not in control of his actions, that much is true. He’s just lost too much blood. The only thing fuelling him now is his instincts, some rabid part of him clinging on until the bitter end, and it’s all he can do to watch from some distant corner of his mind as he staggers through the streets—thankfully empty for now—looking for prey.

And then he smells it.

He only hesitates for a moment. It’s the scent of blood, thick and rich on the air, smelling more decadent than anything else he has ever smelled before in all one hundred and seven years of his life, tantalising and delicious and calling his name. There’s something off about it, though; something not quite right. If he had any strength he might be able to resist, but he doesn’t; the hunger is pulsing through his body now, fierce and raw, and his gums throb with the smell of the forbidden. One foot in front of the other. Follow the trail. There’s blood on the ground and when he bends over to stick a finger in it it comes back wet; when he puts the finger in his mouth to taste, he— _oh, fuck, mine, mine mine mine mine, need you now, MINE_. Rabid. He needs that blood. He’s never tasted anything so beautiful before. There’s energy in it, ancient and impossibly old, and it fuels him enough for him to straighten up and break into a jog, needing to find the source of it before he goes quite mad (if he hasn’t already. He’s not quite sure).

He rounds the corner and he’s there, standing in the middle of the road, his back to Hongbin and his face tilted up towards the stars—and Hongbin’s world comes crashing down around him, long-buried fears rearing up to choke him even as he’s still stumbling closer, unable to stop himself. The war within him tears him apart. He can’t go any closer. He can’t go any closer but he must because he will die if he don’t but he can’t stop himself but he needs to because—

Because.

What cannot be.

What cannot be, what must not be, _is_.

Because even though Hongbin can’t see his face he’d recognise the shape of him from anywhere from years of seeing him in nightmares, both his own and Sanghyuk’s.

Because instead of white feathers all he can see is two long open wounds dripping blood—he’s standing in a puddle of it—and as Hongbin staggers closer all he can think is _have you been bleeding for ten years?_ before he’s upon the figure, and with the gentle caress of a lover he wraps one arm around his waist, the other pushing his head to the side, and sinks his fangs into Taekwoon’s neck and drinks and drinks and drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to crystal for helping me with the portuguese (I didn't trust google translate) and reenie and mel and keeley for betaing/letting me yell at them!
> 
> kljfg i'm so sorry this took so long (the last time i wrote something new for incubus was in december LAST YEAR? now it's MAY??? holy heck) but that tortured artist stereotype is true, i just had to wait for a new bout of emoness to set in and i churned this shit out like butter. also FINALLY HAKYEON TOPPED JAEHWAN no one asked for it but STILL FINALLY
> 
> strap in folks because we're going full steam ahead from here on out! part 2 of incubus is underway!! i hope you're as excited as i am to see how this all unfolds :3
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it, and if you did pls leave a comment ♡ you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hakyeonni) and you can ask me things [here!](https://tellonym.me/hakyeonni)


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